1 am. I am awoken by a big ruckus under the bed. I turn on the light... and there it was.
I could tell something was up when I arrived home late and there was no hungry, whiny cat at the door, --nor was he making his way there. I walked upstairs to find Buster under the armchair, repeatedly prodding at a fabric tote bag filled with knitting --like a cat. But not like my cat. My cat whines for food and rarely plays contentedly for very long --never when there is a chance to beg.
His eyes were wild and alert. He was smelling the ground--on the hunt. After a few minutes I noticed his gaze following a moth around the room and figured that must be it--he had been chasing a grounded moth. Maybe so. Or maybe.... he could sense there was small furry intruder lurking nearby.
Ladies and gentlemen, after mouse no. 2, I believe there is no mistake, no fluke, no lucky break. I believe I have myself a real mouser. A 23 pound... chronically weezy... mouser.